


interlude: invisible selves

by strawberrv



Category: The OA (TV)
Genre: Gen, Late Night Conversations, Platonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-26 01:07:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9855320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberrv/pseuds/strawberrv
Summary: he’s not sure why or when they started hanging out at each other’s houses, but now they do. it’s almost comfortable, even though it shouldn’t be.





	

**Author's Note:**

> just a short thing that i wanted to post. set after season one.  
> buck lowkey has ocd. steve lowkey has adhd. french lowkey likes them both.

the neighborhood is dark but light.

“fuckin’ buck.” steve’s drunk. gotta be, although sometimes he’s too sober and that’s what gets him like this. french watches him from across the room.

“fuck. buck. rhymes.”

buck looks up from his sleeves, wrapped up around his knuckles. “thanks for that.”

he’s not sure why or when they started hanging out at each other’s houses, but now they do. it’s almost comfortable, even though it shouldn’t be.  
steve twists his torso to stare lazily at him. his gaze is unfocused and fogged over - definitely drunk.

“hey,”

buck blinks at him, watching to see if his eyes will focus.

“what.” his voice is still so light and high - so feminine. he clears his throat.

“you think…. hey. what rhymes with steve?”

buck sighs, sinking into the chair further and bothering to actually think of answer to carry on the moronic conversation.

“cleave.”

steve wrinkles his nose and turns away, mumbled “fuckin’ gross” following his mouth.

“french. bench.” this is the only thing alfonso has contributed so far.

buck bites his lip, but something about the impermanence of the night gives him courage.  
“cleave, bench, and fuck. we could start a boyband.”

steve’s raucous laughter bounces wildly around his room, filling the negative space around furniture. french snorts and smiles softly. different boys.

steve turns his gaze to the ceiling, only comfortable in the silence because of the alcohol. usually he’d be talking, giving people something he can control to focus on instead of letting them observe something he wouldn’t want them to. but he’s quiet tonight, just looking at his ceiling. 

suddenly buck remembers that he does those tricks on the roof, wonders if that weakens the structure of the house at all. roofs weren’t made to be jumped on after all. he imagines a chunk of the ceiling falling onto steve, then shakes his head and sighs. clicks his tongue at himself, for creating unnecessary anxiety.

keeps imagining the ceiling falling on steve.

french glances at him, observant. clicks his tongue too, for some reason. imitation. something to say without talking.

maybe that’s why french and steve can’t get along. make each other think too much.

steve rolls over so his face is pressed into the mattress. yells a little.

“jesus,” french says, watching steve do it again, veins in his neck straining against the sound in his throat. he settles after a moment and french huffs. takes off his glasses. puts them back on. something to do without doing anything.

“what, a guy can’t fuckin’ yell in his own room?” it’s muffled, but it’s also steve so they understand. 

“didn’t say that,” but there’s not the usual frustrating innocence in it when french is being smart to annoy steve. just a light denial, something to say. 

steve turns his head toward french, and buck looks at the curly ends of his hair, shorn at the back.

“yeah but you were givin’ me that look. could tell.”  
french shrugs, probably biting back some other logical but annoying something, like _can’t prove anything._ childishness they bring out in each other.

steve shifts so he’s on his back again. again again.

“hey buck. your dad stop being an ass?” it’s slurred. buck shrugs. steve waves a hand in the air like a game show host. “that’s a no from this one. hey french. your mom quit smoking?” french scoffs, a _no_ floating from his lips, only indulgent because of the hour, maybe.

“see? shit stays the same. maybe some shit happens like, once. but then it’s over and shit goes back.” he swallows thickly, unused to gravity from this direction.

“this neighborhood. errs toward stagnation.”

it’s a strangely eloquent thing to say, at this time in this house with the road outside the window. the neighborhood is dark but light. it makes something in buck’s chest ache.

**Author's Note:**

> fivemovements.tumblr.com


End file.
